World War Three
by Emmerai
Summary: Living in denial, always looking back... to be at war is a terrible experience, but what of being blamed for it? Can I ever escape the wrath of the enemy, or will I end up becoming one with her? A story about WWIII, caused by future nations.


**A/N: **_Ahh, so this is. ANOTHER crazy idea of mine. I don't remember where it came from, I just remember that Dimitry (the main character) and Mai (his twin sister) came into existence, I decided "EH why not draw Dimitry," and then a fanfic somehow came out of all this? Oh well ^~^ They are indeed OCs, but they're Russia and Vietnam's kids. They're mighty fine OCs if I say so myself, future countries. They're not invented by me, for the most part, so they must be credited to my good friend, she knows who she is~  
><em>_Okay, all that's left are the Warnings. Reasons for being rated M: Violence, Gore, Perturbing Material, Sexual Situations, Dialogue, Crime, Mafia!Italy, etc... Basically, many many things which will come up eventually in the story._

_ALL RIGHT, ENJOY~_

World War Three. A nightmare to many, a future fact to others. As for us, this absurd, far away occurrence is what can only be called: the present.

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><p>A bullet here goes, a geyser out comes. This happened but daily, out on the battlefield of the motherland. I'm none other but Димитри Иванович Брагинский (<em>Dimitry Ivanovich Braginsky<em>), better known as Мстиславя (_Mstislavia_). You probably noticed that my last name is Брагинский and my patronymic is Иванович, and you'd be right if you guessed that my father is none other than Иван Брагинский, the fearful man better known as Pocиа (_Russia_). Some people still call him Soviet. But that's his affairs, not mine. I'm simply Мстиславя, the country right below. Even if World War III's "my" fault.

Admittedly, I also have a mother, Kim Ly, better known as Vietnam. But again, we're not talking about that. You probably don't give a shit. This is simply a story about life. My life. The now, not the before.

My comrades China, Russia, Vietnam, Ukraine, Belarus, Georgia, Albania, etcetera, etcetera were beside me, fighting for me. All I could think was, _why fight for __**me**__, what have __**I **__done for any of you but be a burden? What should it matter to you if Alberta attacked me? __**Why? **__I'm not even a hundred yet, and you fight as if we're lifelong allies…_

But I suppose my thoughts are nothing more than that: thoughts. An opinion. Never a fact, an influence. Just a **thought.** I shrugged it all off, trying to focus on the bullets raging toward me, responding with fire of my own. I'd love to just shoot Alberta and be over with it, but it's not as simple as that. So I go for something a little more short-term for today, such as seizing Mexico's home. For now, America's too strong…

4:58pm, and my goal accomplished. Mexico's but a slave to me now, joining the rest of Central and South America, the Caribbean islands, and France. All that remains now is Canada, the U.S., Alberta, England, and Poland. I'd go as far as calling the old Axis brilliant, seeking no involvement whatsoever. But otherwise, I'm sure they'd join the dark side.

4:59pm, as if nothing changed. What did I ever do to her? _Why _is Alberta so against me? _Why _do I have to be plunged into such a red place, a black place, a satanic place, a place filled with bloodshed? For _what_? I… I need to escape!

"Hey, Dimitry, where the fuck are you going?" Mother protrudes. I simply ignore her, run as far as I can, and overhear her talking to papa and sister—that's right, I forgot my sister Mai, but you can call her Hoang Phoung. Why do I forget my Сестра? My damned twin sister? She's in this as much as I am.

_Fuck life, vodka solves everything, _I a good two hour run, I ran out of breath, and could do nothing but search for a local bar to forget my miseries. After another while, I did manage to stumble across one.

In I go, through the dirty, termite-eaten excuses of doors. _Why did I come here in the first place?_ I simply shrugged off the realization and took my seat amongst the tattered stools. "One shot of vodka please," is all that came out of my mouth repeatedly for the next half hour.

Before I knew it, I'd drunken thirteen shots, well past due to kill a regular human, and yet I didn't even feel the slightest effect. Why was it so hard to get drunk in this day and age?

"What's a man like you doing in a place like this?" heard I from my side, at which I find a woman. She's about twenty years of age, same as me, light brown curls tied in a ponytail, a tight black tank top ripped on the bottom, exposing her midriff, shorts that more resembled underwear, panties you call it (?), in coverage, and a very, very large… chest. Overall, she looked like a complete whore. I could feel my face flush just from noticing her, noticing _them_, so I dared not look at her. Since when was I so… sensitive? Papa would be ashamed of me. "I'm talking to you, signor." So she's… Italian?

I haven't but a choice to look at her, so I try to only notice her face—_my God, what a resemblance to Italy,_ I remark. "Me? I'm just…here. The better question is, why are you here?" I retort, looking away once more, not in the mood for conversation. If she wants my money, she's stumbled upon the wrong person.

"Kekeke," she giggled, "I guess you could say I'm meeting a client here? I personally don't like bars, I'd rather spend time with the familia, with mama and papa…" she gave a far-off glance, solidarity apparent, but I could only reflect upon one word: _client_. As skimpy as she dressed, her attitude wasn't that of a typical… prostitute.

She must have noticed some hint in my demeanor, because she then proceeded to spit out, "I'm not trash, idiota. I may dress like this for the job, but I'm only following my father's footsteps, running the family bus—shit, I've said too much!" At these last words, I hear the sudden _click_. "Outside, now." The gun was pointed straight at my skull, so I had no choice but to obey or have my brain blown to bits. _If she has a gun, she's definitely not a prostitute, but what else could she be doing…?_

We step outside into the secluded street, into the alleyway next to the bar. If I'm going to reverse our roles, now would be a good time. Thinking it well, she could be an agent for the enemy, me walking about in my military uniform and all. Perhaps I was a tad drunk, but I immediately proceeded to swing out my papa's birthday present two years ago: a shiny faucet pipe, just like his. With it, I smash the gun out of the woman's hands, but she quickly holds on to my pipe in response, trying to grab it from me. If it weren't for the fact that I was papa and mama's son, I wouldn't have been able to resist her steady tug. She was simply too strong and fierce to be…a regular. She _had _to be a nation.

I cornered her, using my pipe to its fullest abilities of menace. "Who the fuck are you?" I demanded. She acted strong, but she indeed recognized the bloodied pipe, the fear but glimmering in her eyes. Indeed, she must have been a nation if she recognizes the icon.

"I see you've borrowed Russia's pipe," is her sole answer. I thrust Ruth (as I've named my wonderful pipe) at her, but she managed to dodge on time. Shit, I would've liked to add new blood to feed my precious…

"I asked who the hell you are, not to give a half-assed comment about her, you fucking whore!" She finally senses my temper, and finally reveals,

"…I'm Santa Bianca, better known as the lovechild of Germany and Italy Veneziano. Now, it's your turn, and you better make it good." I immediately felt at ease upon learning that she wasn't even involved in the war.

"So that resemblance of yours wasn't coincidental. I'm the infamous Mstislavia. I suppose it's nice to meet you, being impartial and all."

"Nice to meet you… too? I've heard a lot about you," Oh, it's the Italian _derp _smile, "but I never imagined you'd resemble your father so much, pipe and all. Look, I'm sorry for all the trouble, but I was waiting for a client." At this point, I started walking back to the bar to get more alcohol in my system, and whatsherface….Santio Banco?... soon trailed after me.

"What client? From where?" I've barely met her, and yet she drove me insane. But still, it can't hurt to ask out of curiosity.

"The mafia, you idiot. Do you forget who my father is?" She harshly responded. Immediately, her mood lightened up considerably, like someone bipolar. "Anyway, would you like something? My human name is Gemma."

"Define something. And I'm Dimitry…" Something eh? To leave me alone. At this point, I'm only being nice in order not to gain myself another person to fight against.

"What do you mean? Something means anything you want, you know, on me," she smiled slyly. Women. You never know what they mean, until they trick you and you're screwed…

"No thank you. I don't trust your kind," I glared. All smiles… just like North Italy. Despicable.

"Oh sigh, I guess it can't be bothered…" what a ridiculous face. "Ahh well I guess I'll catch ya later! My client's here~!" Almost instantly, she readied her gun as a precaution and approached _with enthusiasm_ a sleazy old man, obviously not a nation.

After she left, I still wandered in the bar, without a motive, drinking up a total of forty-three vodka shots. I'd run out of money, so I had no choice but to leave. So, I just walked on the frozen streets, the snow nipping at my face.

What a beautiful snow fall, all covered in white. The red snow hasn't yet reached these parts… the flakes falling in my outstretched hand, crystalline, staying in my black leather glove, a sole star against a stark sky…

Soon, however, the calm sprinkle had turned into an unbearable blizzard. What do I do? I walk on as if it were sunshine. The lonely cold is but a familiar companion of mine. I'd failed to notice I was standing on a frozen lake. As soon as I did, I knelt down and tapped at the ice, hoping to break it. After scraping away with my bare hand for all of five minutes, I made a deep opening, and I sat and watched the fish below. The still, motionless fish. And it was then: the solid waters tinged with red. Yet again, the forlorn color follows my every step…

My own reflection, my very face, slowly turning into a crimson afterimage. I look at myself yet again, searching for a bit of hope, only to find a façade upon me… idly, I shift my gaze to my numb hand, in search of nothing, and yet everything at once, but find red. Maybe the frostbite caused it… so this time, I can't blame bloodshed upon the stains. I can only blame myself and my always foolish actions.

Slowly, lifelessly, I quiver to my feet, gently gliding to turn around. Nothing but the grey, imperceptible clouds to greet me. The blizzard passed? What a joke, it was stronger than ever!

So I kept walking, in search of another distraction. I spot a flag on the horizon, red, then blue, then white. So I'd crossed onto my father's territory, eh? Like I care anymore. In fact, I hope he's drunk enough to put me out of my misery.

The steps I leave behind, they're red. What else could they be? All too sudden, the burn takes upon my back, and I fall forward. I wish to detail what happened next, but I wasn't awake to find out.

* * *

><p>"Oy, Vietnam, dear, he's starting to wake," A distant voice cried. WAIT, that distant voice is father's! What the hell?<p>

"What? My Buddha, my little boy's finally starting to wake!" And next, the strangling feel of tight arms around my neck. But I can only see it all in black and white? What the fuck happened to me?

"Mama, papa, what….where…..why am I…?" Ah, the jumble of thoughts just poured out, and I haven't even the strength to fix it.

And the expectant slap on the face. "You wandered off from the battlefield, got drunk, and got shot on _my_ territory! And only a few feet from the border, at that! What if you'd gotten shot on the other side, on Poland's territory eh?" Before an enraged fist could meet my already bruised face, it was caught by an equally strong hand.

"Now, now, dear, I agree the boy needs some sense slapped into him, but lynching him will _not _help him or anyone else, besides the enemy. Now," and of course, it was mother's turn to slap me and grab hold of me by my shirt—I don't remember wearing this… am I in the hospital? "YOU FUCKING IDIOT! YOU HAD US WORRIED SICK, AND YOU CHOOSE TO NOT ONLY DRINK YOUR ASS OFF, OH NOOO, YOU GET SHOT AS WELL! DO YOU NOT REALIZE WHAT—" she was cut off by father's physical restraint, because by this point she was shaking me senseless, making me only more confused, as well as furious for their lack of concern.

"Honey, I'm gonna have to use your own methods against you by telling you to calm down, and that anger won't solve a thing." Without a doubt, he had concern in his voice for _mother._

"Could either of you…please tell me…where the fuck I am?" I asked, both in an attempt to confirm my suspicion, and to get their attention, their _gentle _attention.

"A HOSPITAL, YOU IDIOT!" They yelled in unison, holding each other's' hands.

Then, my father proceeded to add, with a note of disgust in his voice, "What the fuck are you, blind?"

"…more or less, thanks for asking," I nonchalantly inform them. They never bothered seeing if I was well, so how the fuck would they know what was wrong with me?

"Don't backtalk—wait, what?" Father asked, in disbelief.

"I'm somewhat blind! I don't know what it's fucking called if I can't see colors! Right now, it's all black and white, with a touch of grey, all a colorless blob, because I can barely see the black and white, since it's mostly. Just. White," I growl back, gritting my teeth in the end, all in one breath. Another stupid move, because I feel even more exhausted than I already did. Argh, not to mention the pain…

"Why didn't you tell us earlier?" My mother hiccupped. By her tone, I could tell she had tears in her eyes.

"Because you were too busy attacking me, that's why!" I try to yell, only earning myself a strong cough. I feel something warm down my chin, but I can't wipe it…

And so, father wipes it? Odd, usually mom is the one to care for me. Father's always at his G8 meetings, after all…

"Russia dear, why is our son coughing blood?" I hear mother ask, a slight giggle in her voice. By this point, I know she's gone hysterical.

"Oh my, two sick people in my house now…" father reluctantly sighed, an apparent sign of his sorrow. Notice how the sorrow comes after _mother _falls ill.

"Get out. Now," I whisper. I want to be alone, far away from these two. Unfortunately, my stubborn father refuses to leave, only smacking me again.

"Can't you understand we're here because—" I try to punch him back, but it was more like a tickle to his face.

I then say softly, but sternly, "You're here because you're worried that if I die, we'll lose the war, and you might lose your home. If you were truly worried about my well-being, you'd have chased after me whenever I stormed off, you'd have caressed me when I was young, you'd have asked me if I feel better when I woke up, and most importantly, you'd have never let me almost starve to death, or freeze to death, or burn to death, or simply die of being sick, just because you were too busy pleasing mother, bring _her _flowers, giving _her _kisses, and tending to _her _wants even when she was perfectly healthy,-" I'm amazed I said all this, but mind that I did pause here and then to cough, and in the end I had to stop because I was having a fit, coughing up—of course, red. So that was what went down my chin earlier…

Father's gaze softened slightly, a gaze that was truly frightful. I kept my face strong, but I feared within of what he'd do next. To my surprise, all he did was say, "I see. I suppose I really should leave, if that's how you feel after all this time. Прощайте, Димитри." _Farewell, Dimitry._ He calmly walked out of the room, as if he were leaving the supermarket. As you could imagine, mother followed him like an obedient little puppy.

Well, I got what I wanted; I'm all alone.

* * *

><p>"—<em>o the darkness goes on, but I'll have eyes for the light, the light that's so bright, the light that's my guide, I'll walk in the trench and go onward, onward, onward, to the bright light, the light that will always, be, my, guide…<em>"

H-huh? I wake up from my sleep because of… singing? But, who's singing? Such a heavenly voice… I think I'll feign sleep some more in hopes of hearing it again… It reminds me of when mother sang to me when I was little… such a sweet voice…

Instead of melting with that angelic sound, I was indulged with a soft stroke to my cheek and a kiss to my forehead. I can't remember the last time I'd received such gentle affection… I could feel a grin finding its way on my face, at such a nice feeling…

Immediately afterward, I hear a familiar giggle. My eyes flickered open in shock, it couldn't be—_her. _"How the fuck did you manage to get in here?" I tried to snarl, but I failed miserably. I forgot my current state, but the excruciating pain soon reminded me.

"It was simple~! I told the nurses I was your sister, and they let me in!" She smiled, idiotically. It was kind of cute, now that I think about it, but still so irritating.

"But, how did you know I was here?" I questioned her.

"Well, China was the one who found you lying there, almost dead, then he told Japan since he's neutral about it, and then Japan told my parents, and I eavesdropped as I went to them to beg mommy to make me more pasta. I pretended to not know what they were talking about, but I was actually really worried, you seemed like a nice fellow and, and—" Astounding. She was crying. She's just like Veneziano.

Giving a slight sneer, I decided to tease her, just for the hell of it. "It seems like you think of me as more than a 'nice fellow.' Would you care to explain why you were singing to me, or why you touched me?"

"Because I thought it would help you heal sooner!" she blurted out, her cheeks an adorable—I mean nasty—pink. "Besides, I saw that you enjoyed it, and you were asleep." Wait, if she's been at this for a while, then what else has…?

She giggled once more, and informed me, "That's a nice shade of blush you use."

"Sh-shut up, will ya!" I was _not _blushing, at least I _was_ not… sigh. It's not my fault I'm shy around anything without a cock…

Gemma decided to tease back, kissing my cheeks. I tried to flinch back, but any movement just caused me great agony… so I was stuck, my only defense a weak swatting away with my hands, and a quiet, "Stop! Go away and don't come back! Stay with your fucking parents or something!"

"Kekekeke, I know you don't mean that," noticing my inability to move, she seized the opportunity and, oh God, hugged me, nuzzling into my neck. I tried to push her away, but I was… too weak. Damn back.

I immediately hissed, "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

She only cuddled me more and replied, "A lot of things."

"G-get off!" I couldn't do anything but wait for her to go away. Go away—just like my parents did… suddenly, her attention doesn't seem so bad…

The door burst open, earning my startled state, and the German voice followed. "Gemma! Vat the hell do you think you're doing? Get off of that boy! He's a filthy communist!" Oh, right, I forgot that only former soviets even liked me…

"Aww, Luddy, don't be so harsh, veh~ they look so cute together! And I remember us, that's how we first started…" Italy joined in, with that signature smile of his.

Gemma jumped up swiftly and blurted, "Mama!" Italy slightly tinged a hint of blush.

Germany sighed and stated, "Feli, we didn't meet in a hospital. We became friends during Vorld Var Vuhn."

"But, Luddy, I didn't mean it like that! Veh, I meant when we first became friends: we pinky swore and I hugged you," Italy said, looking up at the scary blue eyes. Not quite as scary as father's, though.

"Germany, Italy, would you mind telling your daughter to stop pestering me?" I whispered at the two lovers.

"Vat? _Pestering_? Gemma, now I'm really worried as to what you're up to…"

"Veh, don't worry Gemma, daddy said the same thing Mstislavia said to my boss when we were still young!"

"Feliciano Vargas, vill you not be a proper parent for once?" Germany asked, performing a facepalm.

And the two set off to bicker. So I ask Gemma, "Do your parents always do this?" For some reason, that came out with a slight melancholic hum to it. Perhaps it's because I was thinking of mother and father…

"Kekekekekeke, Mama and Vatti always fight a lot, but in the end they end up laughing like maniacs at how ridiculous they are," she said with the sweetest—I mean nauseating!—smile. Why do I keep thinking such things? Hey, I just noticed that she's wearing decent clothes…

I shake off my thoughts and respond, "That's nice…" I looked out the window, only to find buildings—it even looked _warm_ outside. What the fuck?

"You don't sound very happy about it, Dimitry," Gemma chimed in.

"Shut up!" I meant to yell that, but I just ended coughing up blood. I'm not gonna talk about it.

"Are you okay?" she asked, oblivious to the two screaming lunatics a few feet away from us.

"I guess…" What was I supposed to say? I'm partially blind? Never!

"Gemma! Come here, now, ve're leaving!" Germany ordered.

"She can stay if she wants!" Italy protested.

"No! No she cannot! She has things to do, and you know it, Feliciano! Do you vant her to just _forget _about her paperwork? Is _that _the kind of example you want to set?" This outburst from the German threw Italy over the edge. He slapped Germany across the cheek. Hard. Just like my father did to me…

"Calm down, Ludwig! You and I both know you're just saying that as an excuse that you don't approve of her free will, but you do it at _my _expense! Just, just take her if you really are this, this, bastardish today…" Germany's face looked… troubled, and Italy broke into a sob by the end of that. Gemma, sensing the urgency, proceeded to stand up once more.

"Ah well, I think I should leave now… goodbye, and get well soon. Just remember, you're free to visit us," and she smiled that warm, genuine, bittersweet smile. If only she used it more often, instead of that pathetic close-eyed face that she inherited from Italy.

"Дo cвидaния," I replied back. _Until later, my comrade._

Oddly enough, Italy lingered back in my room, instead of leaving with the other two. Immediately, he wiped his face. Fake tears, eh? Then he informed me, "Don't mind her behaviors. She gets them from me, and it's her way of expressing that she considers you a friend." Then he asked of me, "Don't treat her harshly. She truly does mean no harm, and neither do we. If I hear of any nonsense from you, I'll deal with you." An oddly evil gaze radiated from his eyes. I knew his Mafia side came out.

"I have no interests in the girl, if that's what you're thinking, Mr. Vargas. All I care about is seizing Alberta and to make her rue the day she crossed my path… I'll avenge myself, even if the price is far greater than my life…" for some odd reason, I felt like I could talk with the Italian. Truly talk.

"I see. Just don't use _her _in your plans, if you can. I'd love to say don't get her involved, but you and I both know she's probably burning to join your side of the war. But I warn you again, if anything happens to her, I'll replace my '06 FIFA World Cup football with your head."

"…I can't do anything to protect her if she's out of my reach. The last thing I want is another enemy, more red to be spread."

"You don't share your father's communist views, do you?" The question they all ask me.

"I frown upon communism, and so does my father. The Soviet Union was a long time ago, and it was a _socialist _regime, my _father's _socialist regime." I eyed him fiercely.

"Alright. It was just a curious inquiry. I see you've been stained red. Stained so crimson that you care of nothing, not even yourself. If it weren't for your cowardice, you'd have ended it all a long time ago…"

"Shut up!" I really need to remember I can't yell.

"As time progresses, the moon and the sun will only get darker and darker, until red they both be. The skies? Black will remain the night, but red the day will be, an eternal sunset upon the sky, and upon our lives. People like you think they're the only ones going through these troubles, but never once have they batted an eye to their surroundings. Those who have it worse are _always _a lot closer than you'll ever see." Before I could ask how he could read me so profoundly, he'd finished by saying, "I must leave you now. Remember, you're always welcome to our home; ciao, Dimitry Braginsky," and he mysteriously walked out of the room, and out of my sight.

All I could manage to mutter back was, "Пpoщaитe, Feliciano Vargas. Пpoщaитe…" I had a feeling I wouldn't see this side of him for quite a while…

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **_In case you're curious, Пpoщaитe means Farewell, and you say it "prashayte", more or less. I don't speak Russian, but my dad does. So, ask questions; we'll learn together! If you're Russian, please correct me!_  
><em>Also, I don't check for errors much, because I can't be bothered to, so please, if you find something wrong, just let me know and I'll fix it.<em>  
><em>I hope you enjoyed it, Chapter 2 will be done soon, I hope XP I have SUMMER homework, so I'm still drowning in homework...<em>  
><em>Please, review! I love reviews, be they exaggeratedly long or diminutively small!<em>


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